Baby Names
by MrSpiderlegs
Summary: The journal of Hamish J. Watson. Features Asexual!Sherlock, Straight!John, Sexless!Johnlock, Mystrade, eventual Morene Molly/Irene and peculiar teenagers.
1. Chapter 1

Hello. My name is Hamish Watson. Hamish James Watson, actually, but I'm only ever called that when I've done something wrong, like knocked over Sherlock's petri dishes. But I haven't done that since I was five, so I rarely get to hear my middle name anymore. Pity. It's amazing how much meaning a name can hold when it's hollered by an angry parent.

I live in a flat on Baker Street, 221B. I live with my Dad, John Watson, and his friend, Sherlock Holmes. A lot of people are surprised when they find out that Dad and Sherlock are, indeed, just (very very very close) friends. Dad's not gay. Personally, I think he and Sherlock are heterosexual life partners. I saw that phrase on the Internet and decided it was fitting. They do everything a married couple does, anyway. Dad nags at Sherlock to eat or to pick up his socks or remove severed limbs from the fridge. Sherlock makes Dad tea. They rabbit at me to do my homework and chores. They even share a bed, but that's only because Sherlock is touch-starved and can't sleep alone. This means the upstairs room in mine, and it's a pit. Even after I've put things back where they belong, it still looks chaotic.

I'm supposed to write these things down so there's room in my head for important things, like school and friends and whatever else teenagers are supposed to focus on. At least, that's what the guidance counselor the school forced me to see said. Apparently I'm abnormal. Sherlock says normal is boring.

I'll start by talking about my Dad and Sherlock.

Sherlock is, as I have discovered during long and slightly uncomfortable conversations, asexual. The whole sweaty-and-naked thing does not appeal to him in the least. Dad is heterosexual. The whole sweaty-and-naked-Sherlock thing does not appeal to _him _in the least. This works for me because that means I have never walked in on them doing anything that would take years of therapy to fix the mental trauma. It does mean that, every few weeks or so, Dad goes out to a pub and comes home very late, smelling of perfume, sweat, and beer. (Sherlock always makes him take a shower before getting into bed.)

I like to think he's going dancing. Saves me the mental anguish.

I love it when he goes out, though, because that means I can have a conversation with Sherlock without any buffering from Dad. One of the things I love about Sherlock is that there is no filter between his brain and his mouth. Which means I can talk to him about practically _everything. _Lately we've been discussing Neolithic religions, because of reasons.

People who don't know me or Dad or Sherlock are generally very surprised when I refer to them as Dad and Sherlock, instead of as 'my parents'. Well I haven't got two parents, I've got one and his pet genius. The other person who contributed twenty-three chromosomes to my genetic makeup buggered off when I was eighteen months old. I wasn't too terribly fussed, though, as a toddler, since she would foist me off onto a friend or babysitter whenever possible. I was born during what Dad refers to as his and Sherlock's Break. I don't know what happened during this ominous Break, since Sherlock changes the subject whenever I bring it up and Dad gets this sad-puppy look about the eyes. I just know that the woman whose womb I occupied for eight months and two weeks resembled Sherlock in some ways. Curly black hair, cheekbones you could cut yourself on, pale eyes. I got the hair and the cheekbones, but I have Dad's eyes.

Wouldn't it be funny if we actually _took _the physical traits we shared with our parents? If when I said I had Dad's eyes, that meant he didn't have any?

I suppose you can understand why I have to see the guidance counselor twice a week, now.

It started when I was ten, and we had to write stories for a class. Since mine involved a decapitation, a family meeting with the principal was called.

Family includes Sherlock, his brother Mycroft, and _his _husband whom I call Uncle Greg.

Lots of testosterone in that room. I suggested increasing my soy intake to try and even the odds. Dad looked at me funny.

After a long chat in which the severed limbs in the fridge were Absolutely Not Mentioned, the principal said, in a very soft voice, that usually they alert social workers in cases such as these. I knew that was utter cockamamy, and I think Dad did too, but he still went very quiet.

People like to threaten to have me removed from Baker Street since it's just about the only thing that will make Sherlock behave, and because they don't understand our family dynamic. They see two men raising a child, and they either think, 'oh how lovely for them,' or 'how dare they corrupt that poor wee babe!'. Because people assume that Sherlock and Dad are... involved. With each other. While they do love each other very much, and I think there is a bit of romance to it, and they are a couple, it's not the way everyone thinks.

Even if it were, my reaction would still be the same:

Get Out Of My Business.

I'm a peculiar sort. Uncle Greg likes to tease that I'm 'away with the fairies' but he's in his sixties so he's allowed to sound like and old fart. The thing is, people take this as evidence that two men should not be allowed to raise a child together, when it has absolutely nothing to do with them and everything to do with my brain being a little underdeveloped in some areas and overdeveloped in others.

Anyway, the principal made his threat (and it was a threat; if a social worker saw the inside of 221B I would be whisked away before I could say 'hazardous living space'), Dad went quiet, Sherlock's eyes narrowed, Mycroft smiled like a lizard, and Uncle Greg frowned in a way that made me think he was considering reaching for his badge. Or his gun. Or maybe both.

All I know is Mycroft asked to speak to the principal alone and, when we all came back into the room, the man had gone pale and suggested maybe a biweekly meeting with the guidance counselor. I don't speak to her, just stare at her badly dyed hair and imitation designer clothes. The principal resigned the next week and was replaced by a lovely middle-aged woman who was very reasonable and occasionally joined me in the guidance counselor's office with tea.

Anyway, I am now fifteen and still having biweekly one-sided chats with a guidance counselor, though not the one I started with. This one is fresh out of college and reasonably intelligent. She understands that I have nothing to say to her and instead advised that I put my thoughts down on paper. Or computer, because who uses paper anymore?

I think that's enough introductory information for now. Maybe I'll write more later, maybe I won't. Also Dad's back with takeaway, so. Ta.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't usually go home right after school. Mostly because there are a few nasty individuals who would like to know where I live so they could, I don't know, throw eggs at the windows. Or leave flaming bags of fecal matter on the step. I either go to the library or St Bart's. It all depends on how much homework I have, really.

I like going to St Bart's. The morgue is usually very quiet and Auntie Molly lets me look at corpses, as long as they aren't too mangled. We make a game of it, sometimes. If I can correctly identify the cause of death, just by observation, in under five minutes, she buys the crisps or coffee. Of course I can't just say 'stabbed,' 'strangled,' or anything, I have to give the lengthy medical explanation.

Dad was incredibly pissed when he found out but it's not like we've been doing this since I was little. It only started this year, actually, and I really think Auntie Molly just likes the company. She helps me with my science homework, I keep her from chatting to dead bodies, it's a won-win situation. Still, it's reassuring that adults can be happy despite their oddness. You'd think I'd know that well enough, having been partially raised by Sherlock Holmes, but I can never tell what he's thinking. Auntie Molly wears her emotions like a garment.

My favourite place, other than Baker Street and St Bart's, is Mycroft and Uncle Greg's flat. Neither of them are there much, and if they are then not at the same time. And they are usually busy with paperwork, even then. They don't really communicate much, I don't think. Unlike Dad and Sherlock who talk _all the time. _I guess it's because Mycroft and Uncle Greg have sex.

I don't want to think about that, I _don't _want to think about that, I _don't - _damnation, this journal is supposed to keep me _out _of therapy, not send me _into _it.

Usually when I go over there I head straight for the kitchen. It's always full of food that Dad complains would cost him a week's wages, and while I may not resemble a teenaged boy in a lot of ways, I do eat a lot. If Mycroft's there I poke my head in the sitting room and say hello, and if he's not busy I sit down with him and pester him with questions, usually the kind Dad and Sherlock won't answer. If Uncle Greg comes home when both Mycroft and I are there, he stumbles into the sitting room and collapses on Mycroft. It's amusing to watch, because Mycroft pretends to be bothered and Greg uses the partial deafness that got him relegated to desk duty as an excuse not to budge. Eventually he shifts down so he's sitting on the other end of the sofa with his feet in Mycroft's lap.

Most of the time, though, they aren't there, and after eating them out of house and home, I migrate towards my hypothetical cousin's room. It's painted a gender-neutral yellow but there's nothing to indicate that it was supposed to house a child. When I was five Mycroft and Uncle Greg found a surrogate and they were going to have a baby. The woman miscarried. They never really recovered from having that hope crushed, so they removed all the baby things from the room. It now holds their various combined musical instruments and players. There's a record player with two full bookshelves of records next to it. Another bookshelf and a half are full of sheet music for cello, piano, guitar, and violin.

The violin books are covered with half an inch of dust, but the other three get regular use.

I play cello. Mycroft plays piano, and Uncle Greg plays guitar. Well, that's speculative, because a lot of people would not call what he does 'playing'. They'd probably call it 'maiming'. Still, he never sounds too bad and smashing his dreams of being a rock star would be cruel. Dad plays a pretty mean guitar, though. Surgeon's hands, I suppose, are useful for more than surgery.

I hate being a teenager why is my brain making everything about sex _why. _

I'm sorry if I didn't properly warn you of this, oh-imaginary-reader-of-my-journal. Alas, I am a teenaged boy, and while I may think about sex an awful lot... well let's just say the prospect of touching another human being is a little gross. Particularly the human beings who are my age, half of which don't shower or douse themselves in cheap, foul cologne.

I'm starting to wonder if this is why I don't have any friends.

Tangent. I'm sorry. I was talking about music,

I play cello, and when Mycroft and Uncle Greg aren't at their flat, I go there and play for a while. Depending on the day I've had, 'a while' could either mean one hour or six. As I mentioned, I don't have any friends, not that I'd want to have friends my age as my age group is full of _idiots, _but because I am odd and have been raised by two men and am occasionally picked up from school in a sleek black car, I tend to attract the wrong kind of attention. It's rare for teenagers to be bullied physically, at least on school ground, but there are only so many taunts I can take before I start wondering how much C4 I would need to blow up the school or whether Auntie Molly would know where to hide bodies.

Playing cello helps eliminate some of the homicidal urges.

Oh they're never actually _urges. _Don't get me wrong, I'd be the first to admit that there's something off about me but I'd never actually kill someone. I'm not crazy, I promise; Dad had me tested.

Anyway, oh journal mine, I have decided that until something interesting happens to me I shall write down little details of my life, which is what I have been doing so far. Of course nothing interesting happens to me so this is probably going to end up being several gigabytes of useless information about me, things most of the people in my life already know. Boring.

(**AN: **Oh your reviews! They are lovely. YOU are lovely. I love you. Anyway, if you like, send me a situation/something 'interesting', and if I like it I may write a chapter on it. So far all my Hamish ideas are coming from my crazy messed-up brain and there are all over the place! I want to delve deeper into his relationship with the brothers Holmes, and Greg, and I have to introduce Irene at some point but I have an idea of how to do that... anyway. Ta, you lovely lovely people!)


	3. Extra 1

**Parent's Night**

Ms Mary-Anne Fairweather considered herself a pretty darn good Juniors teacher. She was fair, she gave kids extra time if they needed it, and above all, she included the parents. She had only been out of College for a year or so now, but she was certain she could change the way her students viewed school. She had very strict opinions on how children should be raised, but she wasn't one of those old fuddy-duddies who insisted that two men or two women couldn't raise a child. She was very open-minded; her sister's best friend was a lesbian! No, she just knew that there were a few tweaks to be made here and there when the family dynamic differed from the nuclear. She had several degrees in child psychology and knew how a child should and would behave, depending on their circumstances. She could spot the signs of abuse, neglect, divorce, or bullying a mile away.

Most importantly, she knew how to deal with fussy parents.

* * *

John Hamish Watson was not pleased. For the past few months, Hamish had been coming home upset about something, but he wouldn't say what. The nine-year-old maintained an almost stoic silence for the majority of the day, and John was worried that this extended to school, too. Of course he couldn't bring his concerns up with Sherlock; the man was convinced that this was the sort of thing that happened at state schools, and the minute he had reason he and Mycroft would have Hamish shipped to some posh boarding school and he'd never see his baby again.

So John was not pleased. He could tell Sherlock was not pleased, either, since he knew the man enjoyed his talks with Hamish, and as far as he could tell, they hadn't had one in months. Frustratingly enough, any attempts to get Hamish to open up on the subject were greeted with either stony silence or the 'confused puppy' look John was _positive _that Greg taught him.

* * *

Ah, Hamish Watson. Mary-Anne had a file on _that _one half an inch thick. He was an odd one, that's for sure. He never raised his hand in class, which was discouraging because she knew the boy was intelligent; his written work showed the skill-set of a much older child. She supposed he was scared; she had met John Watson and he seemed nice enough, but she had also met Sherlock Holmes. Mr Watson was so cowed by his husband, it was just so sad. She could see how Hamish would be afraid to speak up in class, and she always made sure to call on him, to let him know that it was alright to know the answers.

Another worrying thing: the boy always seemed to disappear or have some sort of doctor's note whenever it was time for physical education. If _that _wasn't suspicious behaviour then she didn't know what was. She assumed that it was because the children had to change into work-out clothes before the class. Perhaps Hamish was suffering an early-onset of the low self esteem associated with teenagers? Or worse, maybe he had bruises or scars of some sort that he didn't want anyone to see?

Mary-Anne made sure to send out a request for a parent-teacher or family interview to all of her students, but she was very careful to watch Hamish put his in his knapsack before leaving. She had a few choice words for Misters Watson and Holmes.

* * *

Hamish didn't like Ms Fairweather. He wanted Mr Khan back, but he had taken time off to help his wife with the new baby. Ms Fairweather was too perky, and she spoke to them like they were little kids. He absolutely _hated _the way she would call on him, and then when he refused to speak up, she would use that horrible, con-de-scen-ding tone on him (Sherlock taught him that word; when he managed to spell it correctly without ever having seen if before he got a sweetie). She would say, "Hamish, honey, take your time. It's ok, we've still got lots of time before the bell goes for lunch. It's alright, sweetie, I'm sure you have the answer. There's nothing wrong with being smart. It's alright, no one will make fun of you." Stuff like that.

Who did she think she _was? _He was Hamish Watson, raised by Doctor Captain John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. He knew for a _fact _that she had a much older boyfriend who was probably married (he knew what a teacher's salary was and there was _no way _she bought that purse herself), that she desperately wanted children (he personally thought that that would be a horrible idea), that she was at odds with her mother (phone would go off during lessons and she'd check it before making a little face and ignoring the phone; no one does that to friends or boyfriends, ergo, mother), and that she owned three different breeds of cat (long and short hairs on purse and trousers, three different colours).

He was positive that she thought he was slow or something, and the other kids knew it, too. While he hadn't been friends with any of them, he had at least been _friendly, _and now they all avoided him or called him names. Dad had told him that if anyone called him names he had to tell the teacher, but there was _no way _he was going to tell Ms Fake-Leboutins Fairweather.

* * *

When Hamish got home on Tuesday, the day parent-teacher interviews were scheduled to take place, John and Sherlock were home. Both of them. Hamish was suspicious. Usually only one of them was home when he was. He wandered warily into the kitchen, dropping his knapsack on the ground with an unimpressive 'thump'. Sherlock was fiddling with a slide under his microscope and didn't appear to notice Hamish's arrival. John had been grating cheese for pasta on the counter, but when he saw Hamish come in he stopped, dusted his hands, and lifted Hamish's knapsack onto the island, next to one of Sherlock's experiments.

Ever since he had come home on summer holiday with a hunk of rotten cheese in the bottom of his bag, John made a point to empty it out biweekly, at the very least. (By now Hamish had forgotten about the parent-teacher interviews and was not worried about John finding the paper in his bag.)

While John was sorting through Hamish's bag, the child in question wandered over to the counter and munched a handful of the grated cheese. He pulled his workbook out of the pile of stuff John had removed from his bag ("- paperclips, Hamish, why do you have so many _paperclips -_") and started to work on his maths homework. Halfway through he heard John pull something out - paper, from the sound of it - and stop. He un-crinkled the paper.

"Hamish."

"Yeah dad?"

"Why didn't you tell me your teacher wanted a parent-teacher interview?" Hamish paused, all the curse words he wasn't supposed to know rushing through his mind.

"Does she? I didn't know, I guess she just stuck that paper in when I wasn't looking." Now Sherlock looked up. After all, he had been the one to teach the child how to properly craft a fib, so hearing such a pathetic excuse of a lie was an insult.

"_Hamish._"

"Alright, I'm sorry! I forgot."

"_Hamish, _for goodness' sake, it's _tonight!_" Hamish gnawed worriedly on his pencil.

"Well there goes that, right? I mean, since I forgot, horrible child that I am, really, you should punish me, I mean, there's no way we can go, right?"

John growled, "Oh I'll punish you alright. Well it's five now, the appointment's not for another hour. Go upstairs, change into something decent, brush your teeth, and give your uncles a call. Tell them to meet us at the school at six."

"Oh _no._" Hamish wailed miserably. Mycroft had practically _invented _the 'I'm-disappointed-in-you' voice, and Uncle Greg had a way of making him confess to everything with nothing more than a quirk of the brow. Hamish was convinced that it was a trick they taught you at police academy, but then again, John was a fair hand at it, too.

"Oh _yes. _The letter says to bring your family, and they are family."

"So's Mrs Hudson! Are we going to have _her _along, too?" Hamish complained with a bit more snark in his tone than John liked.

"Don't tempt me," John warned. The nine year old gave an aggravated sigh and stomped upstairs.

"Slam that door and you'll _wish _I stopped at inviting Mrs Hudson!" He heard footsteps stop at the top of the stairs, and then the creak and almost silent 'snick' of the door closing. John eyed Sherlock.

"That includes you. Go on, change your clothes, brush your teeth." He made a 'shoo'ing motion with his hands. Sherlock rolled his eyes and slumped towards their room.

* * *

Ms Fairweather straightened the papers and shined the porcelain apple ('World's Best Teacher!') on her desk. She cleared her throat and called, "Next!"

Oh, she had been anticipating this. She rather hoped Mr Watson hadn't brought his unwholesome husband with him, but she had a game plan for if he did. Two quick knocks on the door pulled her from her thoughts.

"Come in!" She trilled. (Outside the door, Greg and Hamish shared a dark look, Mycroft and Sherlock rolled their eyes, and John hesitated to turn the knob.) Ms Fairweather's hopes fell. She gathered her wits about her and put on a welcoming face.

Greg, Mycroft, and Sherlock all arranged themselves around the room. John had to tug Hamish inside from the hall, and he sat the child down in one of the two chairs available. He sat in the other. Once they were all settled, four pairs of eyes fixed on Ms Fairweather. She smiled somewhat nervously, and cleared her throat again.

"Right. I'm sure Hamish has told you why you're here, Mr Watson?"

"Doctor," Sherlock intoned from the corner. Ms Fairweather's gaze flicked to him briefly before returning to John.

"And no, he hasn't." John added. Hamish resisted the urge to slouch as Mycroft watched him silently. Ms Fairweather looked surprised (or rather, she put on her 'big surprise face').

"No? Well then." She picked up a sheet from her stack of papers and prepared to read it, before looking over the edge of it and giving a disarming smile.

"Mr Watson - Dr, sorry - I'm sure you know what a special young man you have. We're very impressed with Hamish's work - "

"We?" Sherlock raised a brow.

"Yes, we as in the school. I - "

"I was unaware that teachers were permitted to share a student's work with other teachers." Ms Fairweather flushed.

"Well, you know how teachers gossip, Mr Holmes. When a student exceeds one's expectations, one can't help but feel a certain abject pride in them."

"Yes, one certainly can't." Sherlock's tone was very dry, causing Hamish to hold back a smile and John to send him a dirty look.

There was an awkward pause.

"Yes, well, as I was saying. Hamish's written work is excellent, but there is some concern about his habits during group discussion." She paused (clearly for dramatic effect, Sherlock and Mycroft were not impressed in the _least_). When none of the adults present spoke up she went on. "He is very closed-off when he is asked a question, or to read from a class novel. I'm worried about - "

"Worried about his home life, I imagine? Oh yes, a child who doesn't clamour for the attention of the teacher is _clearly_ experiencing some sort of problems at home," Sherlock remarked scathingly. "It can't possibly be that he is facing problems at school. After all, he is subject to your obviously _superior _teaching methods. Tell me, Ms Ferryweather - "

"Fairweather." The teacher looked nervous.

" - whatever, how often do you separate the children into groups, hm? From the way the desks are situated in the room just off the hall, I'd imagine it's quite often. Based on the fact that two of these desk groups face either the blackboard or the bookshelf, you must keep your pet students there, where they appear most studious. Of course, there are three others, two of which are pointed to the door or the play area. But the last one is set up to face the window, and it is also the farthest away from you. I would wager that you keep your least favourite students there, partially so you don't have them right in your face, but also, I would say, so you can snap at them to pay attention and accuse them of daydreaming, and I would think that the more vindictive you feel that day, the more you snap at them. How am I doing, Hamish?"

"Pretty spot on, Sherlock."

"Of course I am. Now I'm sure that the children who face the window do get distracted - they're nine years old for Christ's sake - and probably don't complete their work as you'd like. Since you are not right in front of them to provide assistance, they make errors. I'd imagine that you ignore the children who put up their hands. Now, in my day, a common punishment for incomplete work was staying back at recess to complete it. It appears that not much has changed. Ask yourself this: if a select group of students are repeatedly held inside to complete their work, what is the message that the other children receive? Clearly these students misbehaved and are being punished, but why else would they be kept in for, what most would assume to be, extra help?"

John looked uncomfortable, and shifted to face Sherlock, presumably to tell him off, but when he opened his mouth Hamish quickly added,

"The other kids think I'm slow 'cause she always calls on me even though I don't answer." John's mouth shut with a 'click' and he swiveled around to face the teacher.

"Have you done something about this?" He demanded. Ms Fairweather hastily began to respond,

"If I had known - " Hamish was having none of that.

"But you _do _know! You've stuck me and Kisha an' Sanjay an' Peter an' David in that window-spot, _even though _Peter has ADD and he gets distracted easy, and you always make us stay back, and when the others come in after recess they call us names and you just sit there and tell everyone to sit down! When you started working here I answered questions but you always said I was wrong _even when I wasn't, _and you did the same to Kisha an' Sanjay an' Peter an' David and - and - and your shoes are fakes and your boyfriend's going to break up with you because you're a _prat!_" Chest heaving, Hamish collapsed back in his seat, looking up at Ms Fairweather with wet, accusatory eyes. The woman looked scandalized.

"I would _never - "_ At that Hamish shot out of his chair and into the hallway. John started to get up but Greg was out the door after the errant child before he could, so he sat back down and leveled a cold stare at his son's teacher.

"Well." Ms Fairweather was flushed and her lips were pursed.

"Now I don't know how your son came to that conclusion, but I suppose story-telling would come with the territory." She snipped icily.

"What territory would that be?" John was using what Hamish thought of as his 'you-done-messed-up-now' voice. It was a voice that usually sent Hamish scrambling for his homework, or up to his room to either clean or hide. Mycroft was checking something on his phone (presumable Ms Fairweather's credentials), and Sherlock was inspecting the photographs on the wall nearest him.

"Well. I just." The woman licked her lips. "I - " She didn't get a chance to finish because Sherlock interrupted her. Again.

"This is a current class photograph." He plucked it off of the wall. "Are these the children Hamish mentioned?" Ms Fairweather nodded, confused. "Ah, a racist, a homophobe, _and _an ableist. How on earth were you able to get a job teaching children?" Ms Fairweather stiffened at the accusation.

"How dare you insinuate - " John interrupted her. It was quite amusing, he could see why Sherlock had been doing it throughout the evening.

"Go on, Sherlock."

"Thank you, John. It's not an insinuation, madam, merely a fact. These children? One of them is of African descent, another Indian, this boy has two mothers, it's perfectly obvious, and _this _boy has an expression and stance that is common among children with Autism. If my policeman friend was here he would inform you that discrimination based on any of these factors is illegal."

Ms Fairweather paled dramatically. She wasn't - she didn't -

A quiet clearing of throat was heard from the doorway. Greg was standing there, an overwrought Hamish tucked up into his arms. John made a soft noise and stood. He scooped the fortunately-smaller-than-average child up and Greg looked back into the room.

"If we're done terrifying the girl into quitting, can we go? Mycroft and I have reservations." With that, they left.

John looked over at Sherlock, Hamish sound asleep in his lap. He licked his lips.

"So what was it you were saying about that private school, again?"

* * *

(**AN: **HOLY GOD IT'S FINISHED. I've never written anything this long before. IT JUST WOULDN'T STOP. Anyway, Maximillian Nero suggested parent's evening and I took that to mean... well. This. I think s/he meant like. When Hamish was a teenager? But I decided to do a flashback. Now. In Britain, a public school is a really posh school that parents pay lots of money for. A private school is one where they don't pay as much money, but there aren't a lot of those around now. A state school is the equivalent of a US/Canadian public school. A Junior school teaches the age group 7-11 and is called Primary school. If there's anything unclear let me know in a review/PM!)

(**Edit: **I have been informed that private schools are not necessarily less expensive than public schools, but public schools tend to bee all boys/boarding schools, whereas private schools are coed, day, or all girls schools. Also, I am not British, and I don't have a beta, so if I make a mistake, like saying 'pants' instead of 'trousers' or 'chips' instead of 'crisps' or something, please let me know so I can fix it!)


End file.
